Rosie Nixon - The Stylist

‘No problem, I’ve done plenty of PA stuff for Jas,’ I offered diligently, with as much good energy as I could muster. It was only a white lie. I had turned into Mona’s big-eyed, eager-to-please puppy. Yet I had an overwhelming feeling that I would always be just one accidental widdle on the carpet away from getting the sack myself. Well, how hard can PA duties actually be?

‘Great. First, I need you to call the TV people. I told you they’re coming to the suite to do a bit of follow-up filming for the pilot today.’ Er, no, you didn’t. Do you think I’m Derren Brown?

‘They took the plane out this morning, too—the Virgin one, all a bit lastminute.com. But it’s a good sign—they must think the network is interested in commissioning the series. Isn’t that fabulous?’

I gulped.

‘The AD, Bob, was it? The cute one. His number’s in my phone, under “TV”. I said you’d call when we were on our way.’

She handed her unlocked iPhone to me without taking her eyes off the road, which was lucky because it meant she couldn’t see my award-winning impression of Gwyneth Paltrow’s face after discovering she’s eaten a non-macrobiotic canapé. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the fact that the TV crew was already here, in LA, or that Mona thought Rob was cute. ‘What are you waiting for, babe? Give him a call.’

Hastily, I located the number, and it rang, the long, foreign ringtone leaving me in no doubt that he was indeed this side of the Atlantic. My heart started pulsing hard, taking me by surprise.

‘Hello, Rob speaking.’

‘Oh, hi, Rob—it’s, um, Amber here, calling for Mona Armstrong.’

‘Hi, Amber, great to speak to you—we were just wondering when Mona would call. Wonder if you’re feeling as out of it as I am!’

He instantly put me at ease. I pictured him smiling into the phone.

‘Yes, I am pretty tired.’ I sideways-glanced at Mona, who flew across an amber light, laughing. ‘Amber Green!’

As we sped along a wide six-lane carriageway, glass-fronted shops and parked cars whizzed past. I saw very few actual people on the pavement; it was so different to the packed streets of central London.

‘All right, babe, stop flirting,’ Mona barked. ‘Just let the guy know they should make sure they’re with us by at least five, because Beau Belle’s due soon after. She’ll be perfect for the show.’

I replaced my ear to the phone. ‘Mona says, if …’

‘It’s okay, Amber, I heard. Beau Belle, in the flesh, hey? We’ll be with you by five. Get some coffee down you. It’s always a killer on the first day, but you’ll be fine.’

‘See you later, then.’

I handed Mona’s iPhone back to her, leaned back into my seat and began mentally listing the things that were wrong with my current situation:

My face looks like Lindsay Lohan’s after a bender.

I smell.

I have indeterminate ‘energy’.

I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing at the W Hotel.

And on top of that, my first day at work was about to be recorded on camera by a guy I almost definitely fancied.

Just concentrate on your professional ability, Amber Green. You have a career now, and you can do this. Show her you were worth the gamble. You want this. Focus. But giving myself an internal pep talk was another clear sign I fancied him.

We pulled up in front of the impressive glass facade of the W Hotel in West Hollywood, the gleaming mirrored walls glinting in the bright sunshine. Mona handed the keys to a waiting valet attendant. Then the boot bounced open, and the bags and hanging clothes cases Ana and I had carefully packed into it were lifted out by a bellboy and loaded onto a trolley. Mona handed him a dollar bill.

‘Wow Suite, fast as you can.’

‘Certainly, Ms Armstrong. I’ll let the front desk know you’ve arrived.’

‘And tell them to send up any parcels—there should be several.’

Like her obedient pet puppy, I followed. We entered the achingly cool foyer. Trendy people stood busily chatting in groups or waiting for others in round seating areas. An organically curved central staircase with a red carpet down its centre swept through the space with impressive elegance. I wanted to stop here for a minute, to take it all in, but we went straight into the lifts. Mona seemed impatient and far too alert—unlike me, she’d obviously had a decent amount of sleep on the plane.

‘Your Cavallis should be here by now,’ she commented, squeezing out half a smile as we zoomed upwards. Please, dear Lord, let them be here. I glanced at my phone—16:35—that meant I had twenty-five minutes, maximum, to make myself look a bit better and to wake up.

‘Nathan should have pre-ordered refreshments for the suite, so you can set them out prettily and get the coffee on first of all,’ Mona instructed. I wondered if Nathan had ordered her a side dish of cyanide while he was at it. Judging by the phone conversation I’d eavesdropped on, I wouldn’t have put it past him.

Our suite was the size of my entire flat. In the sprawling living room, a stylish dove-grey corner sofa and lounge chairs filled one area, above which hung a light installation ‘containing 20,000 LEDs’ according to the in-room brochure. There were also three free-standing full-length mirrors and a large glass-topped dining table, upon which Mona began methodically setting out an impressive haul of glittering accessories from one of the holdalls, as if she’d robbed the Crown Jewels. There was a large flat-screen TV and an iPod station on one wall; she turned it on and soon Jessie Ware’s soothing tones filled the space, a comforting reminder of the music we played in Smith’s. All of a sudden it dawned on me that I was a long way from home. There was also a breathtaking outdoor private terrace with an open fireplace and cream patio seating, ‘for cigarette breaks and refreshments’. And a compact double bedroom dressed in shades of beige led off from the lounge.

‘This will be the changing area,’ Mona informed me.

I quickly realised that we were basically turning the space into an elaborate shop fitting room, but with plusher sofas and added Jo Malone candles, which Mona had brought along in her Louis Vuitton.

Having laid out a table of cups, glasses, bottles of still and sparkling water, two large platters of fruit, a bowl of mixed berries and a plate of fig rolls—a menu she and Nathan had clearly decided was ample sustenance for our clientele, but which I could currently have tipped down my throat in one go—I figured out how to work the Nespresso machine and got busy making my first ever caffè macchiato. My initial attempt was flat, so I kept it for myself and made a second, impressively fluffy, super-strong cup for Mona. It soon transpired that the ability to make good coffee was indeed an integral part of my job. Through the course of the afternoon I learned that Mona was a caffeine addict, and I swiftly became her dealer.

As I re-emerged from the terrace, I saw that Mona had transformed the living area into a haven of shimmering designer wear. The dining table was a magpie’s paradise, with sparkling jewellery laid across it in neat columns of necklaces, bracelets and shoulder-grazing earrings—most of them chunky, eye-catching pieces in gold or silver inlaid with twinkling diamonds and elegant semi-precious gems. The opposite end was a treasure trove of clutch bags, from small, hard boxes covered in black and silver crystals, bringing a touch of Great Gatsby glamour to evening ensembles, to softer hand-finished half-moons in all colours from navy to ultra-feminine pale peach. Down the middle of the table was a row of evenly spaced sunglasses—or ‘pap shields’, as Mona referred to them—an essential accessory for our most-photographed visitors. There were big, round Jackie O ones, gold-rimmed aviators and fifties styles that playfully turned up at the corners, all bearing designer names. On a side table, laid out around a large cream lamp, was a symphony of scarves. I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed the bright Cavalli ones from the airport nestled in the display. Thank you, Jane from Cavalli. I at least have one fashion PR pal I can count on. Along the entire length of the room was a row of shoes, all towering heels; some with the instantly recognisable Christian Louboutin red sole, and most in black, nude, silver or gold, so perilously high and delicate they looked like art installations rather than footwear. I was glad I’d brought plasters and Party Feet. Then ‘the pièce de résistance’ as Mona referred to it: a long clothes rail filled with the most exquisite evening wear I had ever seen. Some gowns were so long they trailed onto the floor; others screamed for attention with their eye-popping hues or sophisticated detailing. I thought the rails at Smith’s were something special, but this was a whole new level of glamour. Each piece struggled to steal the spotlight from the next. I couldn’t take them all in fast enough—it was like lifting the lid on a fairy-tale fancy dress box. One dress was so full of elaborate creamy ostrich feathers its plumage rose up above the others, like a sensual showgirl high-kicking onto centre stage. Next to it, a hanger groaned under the weight of a heavy, one-shouldered gown covered in twinkling black sequins: a dress fit for a diva. A stunning emerald beauty threw glitter-ball spots of light onto the ceiling, from the glinting silver jewels hand-sewn onto its neckline. The craftsmanship and love put into each gown was instantly visible.